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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795580">The Heist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre'>Fyre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Missing Scene, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:09:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795580</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Aye.” The one who had used a name he shouldn’t have known. He drew on his cigarette and it glowed, lighting his face. “Where can I find him? This Mr. Crowley?”<br/>The second man, half-hidden in shadows was quiet. Pale hands crossed in the reflected yellow glow of a lamp, and paper rustled between them. “Dirty Donkey,” he said finally. “Tuesday night. Nine. But I didn’t tell you.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Heist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Soho glittered at night. That wasn’t to say it shone. There was something too grimy and coarse and aggressive about it all. Brazen lights hung on walls, promises and temptations in flashing neon letters, the reflections dancing on the dark puddles pooling between the cobbles.</p><p>Men and women slunk here and there, and in dark doorways, people did illicit things.</p><p>Among them, a man walked, sheltered from the filmy rain by the shadow of an umbrella, their voices, thoughts and intentions a constant torrent flowing around him.</p><p>
  <em>– on, sweetheart, you know you want to–</em>
</p><p>
  <em>…ten bob and no questions asked…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mr Roper int pleased with you, son.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>– it’s hand or mouth, mister. Up to you. – </em>
</p><p>
  <em>– got word this Mr. Crowley wanted Narker, but he – </em>
</p><p>Silhouetted against the gaudy lights, the man under the umbrella paused. Doorways lined the street like missing teeth in a gleaming mouth and he glanced towards one of them. Two men, cupping hands around their cigarettes, sheltering from the rain.</p><p>“Dead?” The second man, older, unsurprised. “The drink?”</p><p>“Aye.” The one who had used a name he shouldn’t have known. He drew on his cigarette and it glowed, lighting his face. “Where can I find him? This <em>Mr.</em> Crowley?”</p><p>The second man, half-hidden in shadows was quiet. Pale hands crossed in the reflected yellow glow of a lamp, and paper rustled between them. “Dirty Donkey,” he said finally. “Tuesday night. Nine. But I didn’t tell you.”</p><p>“Aye.”</p><p>Second man emerged from the doorway, turning his collar up and scuttling away down the street, his cap pulled low. First man remained, leaning out into the street and blowing a plume of smoke into the air.</p><p>The man with the umbrella stood stock-still, watching him. No. Not a man. The angel of Soho. Aziraphale’s lips drew together in a thin line. “What are you up to?” he murmured. It wasn’t like Crowley to play in his neighbourhood, even if the reputation of the area had changed considerably since he had first moved there.</p><p>The young man flicked the butt of his cigarette away, a tiny glowing arc through the darkness, and stepped out into the street.</p><p>Aziraphale chewed his lip, then hurried after him. “I say! Young man!”</p><p>The young fellow turned, his eyes raking Aziraphale from head to toe, his lip curling disdainfully. “Aye?”</p><p>“I was wondering if I might take a moment of your time,” Aziraphale said hopefully. “I have a small favour and I hope you might be amenable to accommod–”</p><p>The man’s face twisted. “I’m no one of yer wee fancy lads,” he said with a snort, turning away.</p><p>“No! No, no, no!” Aziraphale blushed furiously. It was an unfortunately frequent misconception people had about his intentions, especially lately. The number of young men who assumed he was looking for company had increased exponentially with every decade. “Information, dear fellow! I’m looking for information!”</p><p>The man continued to walk away, shoulders hunched against the rain.</p><p>“I can pay you!” the angel blurted out. “Very well!”</p><p>The man slowed, then stopped. “Is that right?”</p><p>“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale trotted a few steps after him.</p><p>“How much?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“How much will ye pay me?” The young man grated out.</p><p>Oh. Right yes. Of course. Money. What was a reasonable amount? He rooted about in his pocket and pulled out a thin wad of notes. “Will this do?” he offered hopefully. “And a little more for any additional information?”</p><p>The young man stared at him, then slowly grinned. “I’m listening.”</p><p> </p><p>__________________________________________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale paced anxiously back and forth.</p><p>The steady ticking of the grandfather clock did nothing to calm his nerves. If anything, it made him more and more aware of the time slipping by, and still no word from his new… well… call him what he was. An asset. A surly, belligerent fellow, but eager enough to accept a few pounds of ready money for intelligence.</p><p>Nine o’clock turned to ten, then eleven, and still nothing.</p><p>Aziraphale tried all manner of things to calm his fraying nerves. Reading. Responding to correspondence. Rearranging several of his shelves. Putting all of said shelves back in their original order. Tea. So much tea. Possibly too much.</p><p>When the telephone finally jangled at twenty-seven minutes past midnight, he damn near jumped out of his skin, his tea sloshing over the teacup in his hand and into the saucer. He set it down at once, taking a quivering breath, and picked up the receiver.</p><p>“Good evening.”</p><p>“It’s me.”</p><p>“Ah! Good! Lance-corporal Shadwell!” He sank back into his seat. “Do you have any information for me?”</p><p>“Aye, a bit,” Shadwell replied. “When’ll I see payment for it?”</p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips. If he had heard right, Crowley’s meeting was Tuesday night, which meant Shadwell would be there and then. “Tuesday night. Dean Street. Around 9?”</p><p>Shadwell grunted. “Right enough.”</p><p>“So?” Aziraphale twisted the phone line anxiously around his fingers. “Have you found out what Mr. Crowley is up to?”</p><p>“They werenae too forthcoming with the details,” Shadwell said, sounding affronted. “I asked and then I asked <em>nicely</em>.”</p><p>Well, that was good, wasn’t it? Manners tended to open doors.</p><p>“They say,” Shadwell continued, “that he’s planning on robbing a church.”</p><p>The man kept talking, but it turned into a drone in Aziraphale’s ears, drowned out by the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. His hand was trembling he noticed with detached interest as he hung up the receiver.</p><p>A church.</p><p>Crowley was going to rob a <em>church</em>.</p><p>There was only one possible reason for that. One possible and very terminal reason. A discussion – no, an argument – in a park a century ago came roaring back with horrible clarity. The scrap of paper. The ‘favour’.</p><p>Aziraphale pressed his hand to his mouth, staring blankly into nothing. What was he to do? If he spoke to Crowley…</p><p>No. No, that was absurd. Crowley would get defensive and he would probably put his foot in it and they would end up falling out all over again.</p><p>Perhaps bribing his people. After all, Shadwell was amenable enough with a bit of cash in hand.</p><p>But no. That wouldn’t work. He’d probably just take both payments and do the job anyway. After all, it was hardly stealing anything of value to a human. He would probably see it as a kindness more than anything.</p><p>Hm. Aziraphale drummed his fingertips on the edge of the desk. If, perhaps, he donned a disguise as a police officer and lay in wait at the church and scared them off. Oh, yes, that was a good idea. With a truncheon and a helmet and a whistle.</p><p>But then there were always other churches. So many of them dotted about the city.</p><p>Crowley had been thinking about it for a century. Clearly, he had no intention of stopping, but he <em>couldn’t</em> be allowed to do it himself.</p><p>“Someone,” Aziraphale murmured, straightening up in his seat, “will just have to steal it for you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________________________________________</p><p> </p><p>The wall was covered in notes, a vast blueprint spread across the table in front of it. The floor plan had several routes picked out in pencil, some of them frantically scribbled out. A little angel-shaped pepper pot stood in the middle of the plan.</p><p>From the fine trails of ground pepper, it had clearly been moved all over the different routes, where – at various junctures – it had encountered salt, a parma violet, the balled-up gold wrapper of a praline and a letter opener.</p><p>Discarded rosettes of paper were scattered everywhere, outlines and timetables sprinkled like confetti across the floor and chairs and, in the middle of the room, Aziraphale pulled on his outdoor jacket with the ferocity of a knight donning armour.</p><p>He adjusted his ascot and checked himself in the small round mirror, then went to the desk. His favourite thermos stood on the desktop, empty for now, but not for long. He stiffened his spine and picked it up, ignoring the tremor in his hand.</p><p>Operation Baptism was underway.</p><p>The streets outside were quiet, the sun only just creeping up. A few drunks poked out of doorways, recovering from overindulgence of the night before. Without the glare of the lights, Soho looked ragged and threadbare, like a showgirl who hadn’t quite taken off all her make-up. Still garish and gaudy, but tired and grubby at the edges.</p><p>Aziraphale glanced about, then hurried south, purpose in his step. Planning had taken the best part of two days, which meant he only had twelve or so hours left before Crowley put his madcap caper into action. He had to be quick, get the job done with minimal fuss and attention.</p><p>A miracle moved him along a little faster, from the deserted streets of Soho to the glittering towers of the City.</p><p>And there, ahead of him, the entrance.</p><p>Aziraphale stared up at the glittering edifice, clutching the thermos to his chest. A horrid thought bubbled up: Crowley’s plans going awry, the water spilling, splashing, hitting him, and Crowley…</p><p>Setting his jaw, the angel marched through the door and onto the Celestial escalator.</p><p>The brightness of the Heavenly planes was dazzling and he squeezed his eyes shut as he passed through the threshold. A melodious chime rang out and he opened his eyes, stepping off the top of the escalator into the grand glass foyer.</p><p>Lined with windows from wall to wall, he could see a glimpse of the Mongolian Steppe through the glass, and the tap of his shoes on the polished floor sounded deafening as he approached the gleaming curve of the reception desk. An angel in a gold-spangled sari was seated there and raised her eyebrows expectantly.</p><p>Aziraphale gave her a jolly smile. “Principality Aziraphale.”</p><p>She tapped a glassy screen on her desk, scrolling at it with a gold-nailed finger. “I have no scheduled appointments for you, Principality.”</p><p>“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, his collar feeling dreadfully tight. “Well, I– you see, I rather needed a break from humanity.” He smiled again, so wide his cheeks ached. “It’s all rather – you know – <em>human</em> down there. Sometimes, one needs to get in touch with one’s heavenly energy again.”</p><p>She raised a dark eyebrow, unimpressed. “Uh huh.”</p><p>“I <em>am</em> an angel, after all!” he pointed out, wincing at how fraught he sounded. It would do no one any good if he couldn’t even get through the reception.</p><p>She waved a hand dismissively, a door manifesting a few steps behind her. “Fine. Through there for the main lobby. I’m sure you can find your way around from there.”</p><p>He bustled through before she could change her mind, the chilly scentless scent of Heaven’s main hall hitting him at once. Before earth, it had seemed pure and clean and right, but now, he couldn’t help miss the fragrance of honey glaze or the heady tang of petrichor after a rainstorm in summer or fresh cut grass in St. James’s.</p><p>Righto.</p><p>Phase one accomplished.</p><p>He tracked through the map in his mind, spun on his heel and trotted towards a corridor. It had a passcode panel on the door and Lord, he had to hope his suspicions were correct. His hand hovered over the keypad.</p><p>“Aziraphale!”</p><p>The angel nearly leapt out of his skin, whipping around like a startled cat. “Gabriel! Hello!”</p><p>The Archangel bore down on him, beaming. “How’s it going, buddy?” he demanded, cuffing Aziraphale warmly on the shoulder. “We weren’t expecting you!”</p><p>“I thought I’d pop up,” Aziraphale blurted out, grinning rather manically. “You know how it is with humanity.”</p><p>“Ugh, I do,” Gabriel agreed. He flung his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, whirling him around from the door and hauling him off down the corridor. “We’ve had some upgrades since you were last here! You’re gonna love them! They’ve got <em>wheels</em>. So much easier for getting around!”</p><p>“That’s… er…” Aziraphale glanced back at the door. “I was actually hoping to catch up on some paperwork.”</p><p>“Take a break!” Gabriel boomed. “You’ve been on duty for <em>centuries</em>.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I– it’s– I like to keep bus–”</p><p>“What in Heaven’s name is that?” Gabriel paused, peering down at his torso.</p><p>Aziraphale blinked at him, then down at the thermos still clutched against his chest. “Ah. It’s… it’s um. Liquid refreshment. For while I work.”</p><p>The Archangel winced. “Azi, buddy, you <em>know</em> we don’t allow human matter up here!”</p><p>“You don’t?” Aziraphale winced as Gabriel made a face. “No, of course you don’t! Dreadfully sorry!” He stepped out from under Gabriel’s arm. “I’ll just nip along and pop this in the incinerator, shall I? Get it out of the way?”</p><p>Gabriel nodded sternly. “I think that’d be for the best. You have to remember you’re an <em>angel</em>, Aziraphale. No more of this human nonsense.”</p><p>“Rightie-oh!” Aziraphale turned, rushing back in the direction from whence they had come. He ducked through a side corridor, pressing his back to the wall, his heart drumming as he listened for Gabriel’s footsteps receding.</p><p>Cautiously, he peeped out around the corner, the Archangel a vanishing speck in the distance. He took and released a breath, then inched out of the corridor, hurrying back towards the door and the keypad.</p><p>“Let’s see if you’ve changed the default…” he murmured to himself, then punched in 0-0-0-0.</p><p>The light on the lock flicked to green and he couldn’t help punching the air in triumph. The door opened smoothly and silent, and he stepped through quickly, closing it behind him. Another array of corridors opened off in front of him and he mentally scanned through the plan, before turning and hurrying down the second doorway from the left.</p><p>This corridor opened out into a bustling training room, a spike of panic running through him at the sight of Sandalphon on the far side, running drills with a legion of angels. Flaming swords flashed and burned with righteous fire, reminding Aziraphale of a time when he had stood in this very hall.</p><p>He glanced around, relief flooding him as a batch of trainees headed his way. He fell in beside them, hunkering his shoulders down as they hurried past Sandalphon’s platoon, smiling and nodding in greeting to some of them, as if he was meant to be there and not at all violating the sanctity of Heaven’s halls.</p><p>One, two, three corridors down, through the armouries and avoiding the quartermasters, he slowed his pace until he was walking a few steps behind the trainees. Not one of them noticed as he side-stepped through an open doorway into yet another hall, but this one ended in a massive ancient and ornate door.</p><p>It curved up to a point just shy of the high ceiling, the wood polished to a lustre, intricate engravings coiling in shapes of flowers and scrolls roiling from top to bottom.</p><p>Aziraphale stared up at it victoriously. “Here you are,” he breathed.</p><p>Twin handles of knotted copper gleamed in front of him and he pulled one down, pushing the door open and hurrying into the sanctity of the chamber.</p><p>The place could have been plucked from a gothic cathedral, high arcing buttresses vanishing up above him, pillars flanking the long aisle. The stonework shone perfect and smooth, painted in the purest white and diluted light spilled in through leaded arched windows, though they hadn’t allowed more than the palest of tints of colour to influence the glass. The entire effect made the room shimmer as if it was under water.</p><p>And ahead of him, where an altar would have been, a statue stood, cradling a pitcher, pouring the eternal cascade of the truest and holiest of holy waters into a bottomless marble basin. And an angel. Watching him.</p><p>Aziraphale’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Michael! Hello!”</p><p>“Principality Aziraphale.” The Archangel gave him a placid smile. “This <em>is</em> a surprise.”</p><p>Of course she was going to be here. She maintained the fountain. Of course. He’d taken it into account in a worst case scenario. Right. Plan… Plan d, then? Lying was right out. Always was. Always had been. Strategic application of the truth was the only option.</p><p>He plastered a hopefully convincing smile on his face, trying to ignore the tangled knot of nerves that seemed to be trying to strangle him. “I wondered if I might find you here,” he said. Not a lie. “I was hoping to get a little holy water.” Also, not a lie.</p><p>“Some holy water?” She raised an imperious eyebrow. “What do <em>you</em> need with holy water?”</p><p>“Well, you see…” He frantically riffled through the dozens of cue cards he had written up and tried to memorise. “You know I’m stationed on earth to keep eyes on the demon Crowley?” The Archangel inclined her head. “His… um… well, his behaviour has been growing reckless and dangerous.”</p><p>Not a lie, not a word of it.</p><p>“You believe holy water will become essential?”</p><p>Aziraphale licked suddenly dry lips, clinging to his flask. Oh, what was that word Crowley had used all those years ago? “It would be for… for insurance. Just in case.” He tried to smile, though he felt like he was doing little more than baring his teeth at her. “Better to err on the side of caution, don’t you think? Keep him from doing anything drastic.”</p><p>The Archangel’s mouth moved into what Aziraphale could only guess was meant to be a smile. “Ah. Yes. Mutually-assured destruction.”</p><p>“S-something like that,” Aziraphale agreed at once. “Yes.” He glanced down, then held out the thermos. “If it would be all right?”</p><p>Michael stepped aside. “Your intentions are pure,” she said. “It will be permitted.”</p><p>Aziraphale blinked stupidly at her. “Permitted?”</p><p>She smiled, sharp as a knife. “Well, we can’t have just anyone taking the holiest of water, can we?”</p><p>He cautiously approached the fountain, the crystal water shimmering beautifully. “What happens to those who try to take it and aren’t permitted?”</p><p>Her eyes glittered. “The impure are cleansed by holy water, of course.”</p><p>Impure.</p><p>What could be more impure than the intention of giving it to a <em>demon</em>?</p><p>But she was watching him now and if he backed away or retreated or changed his mind, it would be as if he had strung an admission of guilt around his neck. With a shaking hand, he unscrewed the cap and stepped up onto the dais where the statue stood.</p><p>“Er… how much do I take?”</p><p>“The fountain will provide as much as you need.”</p><p>Aziraphale wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, swallowed hard, and extended his hand towards the pitcher, half expecting the holy water to sear into his flesh, burning him away as he’d pictured it burning Crowley away.</p><p>Oh, how cross Crowley would be if he knew. But he would never know, would he? He would visit the bookshop and find it empty and Aziraphale gone and all because of this stupid, stupid reckless plan.</p><p>The water glistened, the hushed sound of it spilling into the marble basin suddenly like the roar of the sea.</p><p>He took a deep breath and pushed the thermos into the flow. It gushed into the thermos and poured over his skin, cool and smooth as silk.</p><p>“Oh!” he gasped in wonder and relief.</p><p>Not impure. Not scourged away.</p><p>The water gushed on until it brimmed over the lip of the flask and he hastily pulled it out, screwing the cap back in place. The weight of it in his hands was suddenly tangible and heavy and <em>real</em>, the surface glistening with overspill.</p><p>Aziraphale pulled out his handkerchief, wiping it dry, scarcely able to believe it.</p><p>“That should be enough,” Michael said suddenly, making him jump.</p><p>“What was that?”</p><p>The Archangel smiled. “Enough for a single demon, don’t you think?”</p><p>He nodded, heart in his throat. “Oh. Yes. Precisely. More than enough.” He curled his mouth in a vain attempt at a smile. “I better get back now. Can’t imagine what wily deeds he may be getting up to in my absence.”</p><p>“Quite so.” Michael inclined her head.</p><p>Anyone who saw him might have commented on the alacrity with which the principality headed for the door.</p><p> </p><p>__________________________________________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tick of the clock seemed interminably slow, inching closer to nine.</p><p>Aziraphale sat at his desk, staring blankly at the flask. It seemed so innocuous for something that contained the distilled power of Heaven. This was a terrible idea. How could he give the dam– bloody thing to Crowley?</p><p>He pushed himself up out of the chair, pacing anxious circles on the floor, glancing at it, as if it might go off at any moment, like an unexploded bomb.</p><p>If he kept it, hid it, no one needed to know.</p><p>But then Crowley would go ahead with his idiotic caper and could do all kinds of dreadful damage to himself.  </p><p>“Maybe he doesn’t want holy water,” he suggested to himself, as if that made any sense at all. “Suppose he’s doing some diabolical deed and stealing… oh… some sainted relic or other? Then you’d look rather silly, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>Wouldn’t you?</p><p>He spun about and caught the back of his chair, the wood creaking under the pressure of his fingers, his face crumpled with distress.</p><p>If he could just check.</p><p>“Shadwell!” he blurted out. “Of course!”</p><p>He donned his coat and dashed out into the bustling streets, the rainbow of lights bright and dazzling on such a gloomy night.</p><p>He bustled his way around the Dean Street, his stomach churning at the sight of Crowley’s beloved Bentley parked there. He spotted Shadwell loitering in a doorway, glowing cigarette between his fingers, coils of smoke furling from his nostrils. The man straightened up at the sight of him.</p><p>“Inside!” Aziraphale urged, pushing him deeper into the doorway.</p><p>Shadwell squirmed loose from his grip, stepping around him. “None of that,” he warned. “I’m here for my money and none of yer funny business.”</p><p>Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “This is a <em>covert</em> operation,” he snapped tersely. He dug a wad of notes out of his pocket, thumbing several of them off and handing them over. “And I have another job for you.”</p><p>Shadwell raised his eyebrows. “Aye?”</p><p>Six more notes peeled off the bundle and he held out three of them to Shadwell. “Mr. Crowley is having a meeting in the Dirty Donkey,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low. “I know you will be attending. I want you to find out <em>precisely</em> what he intends to steal and report back to me at once. I shall await you here and pay you the other half.”</p><p>“What’s it to ye?” Shadwell inquired, snatching the money from his hand.</p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I don’t pay you to ask questions.”</p><p>“Right enough.” The money disappeared into his pocket. “Ye’ll be here?”</p><p>Aziraphale nodded. “Quick as you can.”</p><p>The man prowled out of the doorway, heading to the pub across the way.</p><p>In the gloom of the dank doorway, Aziraphale fidgeted, twisting his hands together anxiously, as the business of Soho ebbed and flowed around him. Young women in short skirts drew seedy men into seedier clubs, flickering neon shining on the wet pavement and lighting their way.</p><p>The angel drummed the ball of one thumb against the knuckle of the other, his heart beating an erratic tattoo.</p><p>It would be fine. It would be <em>fine</em>.</p><p>The time seemed to drag by, but finally <em>finally</em> Shadwell slunk out of the pub, pausing to light a cigarette before meandering back towards the doorway, taking his bloody time about it.</p><p>“Well?” Aziraphale demanded in a whisper as soon as he was close enough. “What is he stealing?”</p><p>Shadwell scowled. “Said he wouldnae tell us until we got there. He’s paying a king’s ransom for it and all.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s heart sank. Gold or valuables, humans would understand. They wouldn’t understand water. Of course he wouldn’t tell them. Which meant that had to be his target. “I see.” He chewed his lip. “I have one more task for you, Lance Corporal.”</p><p>“Aye?”</p><p>“I need to fetch something from my shop. I want you to keep Mr. Crowley here until I get back. Don’t let him leave.”</p><p>Shadwell raised his eyebrows. “He’s a dangerous man, is Mr. Crowley. Ye’re asking a lot of me.”</p><p>“I’ll make it worth your while. A retainer! I’ll sponsor you! Keep you financially sound!”</p><p>The man nearly choked on his cigarette. “Ah… right. Right enough. Keep him here. I’ll see it done.”</p><p>Aziraphale fled out the doorway, rushing back around to his shop. No miracles, not with Crowley so close at hand. The keys shook in his hands as he fumbled the lock, leaving the door swinging wide as he rushed across to the back of the shop.</p><p>The thermos stood there, a lodestone, and he swallowed hard before snatching it and running back into the damp night.</p><p>And Shadwell, bless him, had done exactly as he said.</p><p>There was Crowley, back to the Bentley, apparently deep in conversation with the young man. Aziraphale ducked back into the doorway and clutched the flask tightly with one hand, then raised the other to indicate the young man was free to go. Shadwell gave a smile and a nod that might have been meant for either of them and turned to walk away.</p><p>Crowley circled around the Bentley.</p><p>Aziraphale took a steadying breath and snapped his fingers to materialise into the passenger seat, waiting for him.</p><p> </p><p>_____________________________________________</p><p> </p><p>The flask stands on the desk, the tartan an innocuous splash of colour in the stark black and white surroundings.</p><p>Crowley leans against the desk, staring at it. He has a glass of whisky in his hand. Not his first of the night, not by a long shot. He reaches out an unsteady hand, cautiously touches the cap again as if it might give way, some kind of angelic illusion.</p><p>The whole encounter feels like something from a dream. A miracle he never thought would happen. <em>You go too fast for me</em>. The whisper of their hands brushing as the angel hands over the one thing he said he could and would never give. <em>Maybe one day we can have a picnic. Dine at the Ritz</em>.</p><p>His fingertips press against the cap, turning white. It’s there and it’s real.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe one day…</em>
</p><p>Another impossible thing that he had hoped and prayed was one the table.</p><p>Crowley takes a shaking breath and knocks back the whisky, then sets the glass down with a thump. Angel gave him something precious and dangerous and <em>good</em>. Something holy. Trusted him with it. Blessed him with it.</p><p>And a promise of potential in the future.</p><p>He picked up the flask reverently, taking it and carrying it over to Leo’s drawing and the safe behind it.</p><p>“Don’t worry, angel,” he says softly, setting the tartan thermos safely inside, protected, among his other treasures. He runs his thumb down the side, a small smile tugging at his lips, then closes the door. “I can wait.”</p>
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